


Honey

by CidyKitty



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Always a Different Sex, F/M, Female Jon Snow, Gen, Jon Snow is a woman, Knights - Freeform, Love Triangles, Manipulation, Romance, Smut, Stark Sisters, Underage - Freeform, alternative universe, courting
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-02
Updated: 2018-10-13
Packaged: 2018-12-23 02:24:00
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Underage
Chapters: 9
Words: 18,855
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11980092
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CidyKitty/pseuds/CidyKitty
Summary: There were rumors, of course, about Ned Stark's bastard, but no one had ever seen her, at least - not until now.The bastard of Winterfell creates some controversy after Ned Stark travels to Kings Landing for Prince Tommen's name day tourney and she attracts the eye of a few key suitors.





	1. Jaime Lannister at Wintefell

**Author's Note:**

> I do not own these characters

Ned Stark had a beautiful bastard.

That was the only thing Jaime Lannister could think as the feast surged on. Wintefell, itself, was no so beautiful. It was grey and desolate. The North was harsh, and only those accustomed to its climate, it’s people and it’s customs could ever want to be here. Tyrion found it wonderous, his younger smaller brother was next to him, deeply engaged in conversation with one of the Lords here, some Karstark or something to that affect about the wonders of the North and Jaime couldn’t fathom why anyone would willingly visit the North. His sister looked just as bored as he did, barely engaging Catelyn Stark in conversation. Not that Catelyn Stark had the chance to speak much. Her children darting up to the table for more food, to talk or, as the youngest was doing now, to nuzzle at his mother sleepily. If the Starks were blessed in anything, it was children.

The eldest, Robb sat between his three sisters and tried to keep up conversation but none of them seemed particularly interested in talking to him. The red head and the small one spent most of the time bickering and trying to shove each other before Robb sat between them. The middle brother was torn between tucking into his food and staring at Jaime with large reverent eyes. It was a bit unsettling how much he looked like a small Ned Stark.

The Bastard was late to dinner, he didn’t know why and he didn’t care. All he knows is that he looks away from the Stark children for a moment to survey the table, lazily checking for threats. When he looked back another figure had joined the Stark children. _The Bastard_ , he realized. It took him a moment to remember that it existed. And that’s about all anyone knew about it, most didn’t even know if it was a boy or a girl, not that it mattered. The only story anyone got was that Ned Stark had returned home with a bastard baby. He wouldn’t let the others touch it, slept with it on his chest. The baby was rumored to be Ashara Dayne’s, but that was just it, they were rumors.

The bastard hadn’t been there when they rode into Wintefell, Jaime would have remembered her face. He wouldn’t forget it after today. Pale in skin, even paler than Ned, skin like fresh cream, so white that he was sure up close she must have been translucent. Her hair was twisted back into a braid and was the most odd of colors, nearly grey in its mixture silvery-white and black strands blended together. She was facing away but he could see a small upturned nose and long pointed ears. As if she could feel his stare she turned to him, her eyes meeting his. It was like being punched in the stomach. A dark Valyrian purple gaze looked at him. And wasn’t that curious? They weren’t the dark blue-purple of the Dayne’s or the violet of house Blackfyre, they were strangely jarring, so familiar in their oddity on her pale elfin face. So very _Targaryen_.

 

And wasn’t that curious.

 

Their eyes only meeting briefly before she turned back to her meal. Gently tucking a cloth napkin onto her lap she delicately cute her food and ate, smiling along with her siblings. After the meal the tables were pushed to the side so dancing and music can be done. Tyrion was well into his cups at that point but even he could see that Jaime was searching, his eyes dancing from figure to figure. His eyes continually darting back to Ned Stark’s bastard. Now with the youngest on her lap, pawing at her hair. His head nuzzled into her neck.

“A maid catch you eye, brother?” Tyrion asked, swaying lightly in his seat.

“Something of the sort.” Jaime said, he wouldn’t lie. Tyrion turned from his conversation with one of their bannerman and gave him all of his attention, which was kind of the opposite of what Jaime wanted him to do.

“Tell me brother,” He implored Tyrion. “What do you know of Ned Stark’s bastard?” He watched Tyrion go from a bumbling fool to the wise man he was before his eyes, the shiny in his eyes seemingly vanishing before Jaime’s eyes.

“Nothing but rumors of course. But from what I understand the child is supposedly Ashara’s. Although there is a bit of a date inconsistency no one saw how old the babe was when he brought it back to Winterfell. But that’s about all, why is the bastard here?” Jaime nodded in her corner with his head. As Tyrion looked over at her she looked up at him. He could hear Tyrion gasp, because from the front she was even more curious. Looking straight on her elfin features stood out even more. A tipped nose, long pointed ears, and light, lilac purple eyes. Her hair looked darker in the dim light of the room.

“That’s her.” Jaime told him.

“Gods … she looks like..” Tyrion trailed off. The reason that Ned hid his bastard so close to his heart was becoming more and more clear.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The next time Jaime finds the bastard she is breaking her fast in one of the alcoves in Winterfell, tucked into a window seat with a bowl of porridge in her lap and a book in the other. He searched for her during the morning meal but only found her half-siblings all sleepy eyed from being awoken so early to dress nice and show their faces. He thinks of her most of the night, and almost searches for her when she disappears from the feast but Cersei demands his attention because Robert has gotten so drunk that he needs help back to his rooms. After that she ranted to him about Robert and tried to crawl into his lap, he did something he didn’t often do and denied her her pleasure and feigned ill. _‘the northern food, it must be.’_ But that morning he is in search of Tyrion, who has absconded to the castle library and Jaime has no idea where he is going.

But there is the Bastard. In the light of day in the seat that sees out of Wintefell the bright morning sun turns her hair a shade of grey-silver that is unique to this world. Jaime approaches none to silently, his boots and the gold on his armor making plenty of noise but she does not look up. Lazily scooping a bite of porridge in her mouth, and flipping the page.

“Excuse me, my lady.” He interrupts her. Like a startled cat she jumps in her seat. Blinking at him with large, unusual eyes she scampers from her seat and dips into a terrible curtsy.

“Pardon me, My Lord I didn’t hear you approach, forgive me.” She is a stuttering mess but all Jaime can focus on is the puffiness of her lips – like she had just been kissed.

“There is nothing to forgive. I interrupted your morning.” He reminded her.

“It’s no matter.” She said back.

“If you wouldn’t mind if I interrupted you for a few more moments if you could show me where the castle library is I would greatly appreciate it.” She says nothing but gathers her book and begins to walk. Her dress is the dark iron grey of the North and is high and neck and slightly swallows her but she looks no less regal as she walks ahead of him.

“What are you reading?” He asks, because he wants to hear her voice again.

“It is a book of Knights.” She admits and he can see a faint blush on her cheeks.

“Ah, an interest in Knights.” He said, thinking on it. She didn’t seem to star-struck by him in his white cloak.

“When I was a girl I wanted to be a knight.” She says, the pink on her cheeks growing into a fond red. _‘You are still a girl._ ’ He wants to say.

“You are in here.” She tells him, and he has to think about the sentence for a moment because it doesn’t make sense.

“Pardon?” He asks.

“Ser Jaime Lannister, **The Great Lannister Lion** , they have named you in here.” She doesn’t say it but _Kingslayer_ follows. He doesn’t know what to say about that so he keeps silent. She is silent and graceful in front of him as she leads him down winding corridor after winding corridor.

“What’s it like being a bastard in Winterfell?” The words fall from his lips. She flinched under the question and he feels for a moment like a bumbling fool. 

“I only mean to ask, we have bastards in the South. How are they treated in the North?” Stiffly, she replies. “I am treated well.”

She turns a sharp right and pushes open two French doors. The library is there before him then and he spots Tyrion right away, sitting at a benched table with a thick tome in front of him.

“Here you are Ser Jaime.” She says. “Thank you Lady…?” He trails, waiting for her name to fall from her lips.

“Jona.” She replies and is gone in a swirl of dress and flash of hair.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The next time he sees her the sun is lowering in the sky and it turns her hair a brilliant shade of white grey under the pink light. She has a blade in her hand and is dancing around a training dummy, she’s well enough he supposes but he can’t pay that much attention to her form because her trousers fit so well and the tunic keeps slipping down her bare shoulder.

The blade falls from her hand a second time and she groans, collapsing down in the mud and staring up at the practice dummy that has hay coming out of all orifices. She picks up the sword again and examines it. He can tell from far that the sword is far too big for her hands and probably too heavy, she would do better with a longer thinner sword, or two short light swords. The tunic slides down her shoulder as she brutally attacks the dummy. The blade falls from her hands again.

“It’s the blade.” He tells her as she groans in frustration again. She whirls around to face him, a glare on her face. When she sees who it is the fierce look is replaced by one of contrite.

“The blade is too big, and probably too heavy for you. Try this.” Without thinking he pulls the thinner, lighter long sword from his side and hands the hilt to her. Her mouth pops open, and focuses on the raspberry color of her pouty lips

“My Lord,” She stuttered. “I couldn’t possibly..”

“You can. You will.” He handed her the sword. He watched as her thin pale fingers grasped the hilt and gave it an experimental spin, the way her eye brows lifted in wonder and surprise at the motion, the valyrian steel all but singing in her hands. He watched as her eyes with trained precision danced his sword around. She went to hand it back but he stepped away, gesturing to the practice dummy.

“Give it a good swing.” He watched her train with his long sword for an hour or so, watching the way her body danced in the motion of killing, she was quite good when she had the right tools. She was very good, quick and stealthy, lacking in some areas but she probably rivaled her brother in skill. When the sun was setting she handed his sword back to him, the hilt warm from her hand.

“You’re quite good.” He told her as he watched her pack up her things, a bow and the heavier sword.

“Thank you My Lord.” The last time he saw her was as the King was leaving. Ned Stark having refused Hand of the King, the Stark’s were in front of Winterfell gates. Behind and to the right of Robb Stark Ned Stark’s bastard stood in a light blue high necked gown, looking as Valyrian as her ancestors.

 

 

 

 

_He would be seeing her again._


	2. Oberyn Martell in the Garden

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oberyn Martell meets the bastard of Wintefell in the garden's.

Oberyn Martell in the Gardens

The Red Keep 

 

 

Oberyn Martell hadn’t been in Kings Landing in some time, and there was reason enough for that. Even as he watched his vessel approach the city, the stink of Kings Landing in the air he felt the rage that vengeance had created swelling in his breast. 

The invitation had been sent some time ago, it had come strapped to the leg of a Kings Landing Raven, a tourney to celebrate Prince Tommen’s nameday, and it came with a peace offering. Jon Arryn was dead, Tywin Lannister was Hand of the King, and was extending an olive branch to Dorne. At first, Oberyn had refused to go, anything to do with that filthy city, the filthy people of Kings Landing repelled Oberyn. But then, at night as he thought of it – he knew it to be the perfect opportunity.   
But now, as he wandered the gardens of Kings Landing alone, he wondered if perhaps that had been the wrong decision. Here, in the filthy city, the memory of what had been done to Elia, what had been done to his beautiful niece and nephew, it was proud in his face. In shone on every Lannister gold coin. Nothing could take his mind from his vengeance. How Elia and her children were buried under Dornish sand and somehow, someway, the Mountain was free. The Lannister’s were free. There was no justice. 

The only part of Kings Landing that he could stomach seemed to be the gardens, which had been left mostly alone outside from adding a water fountain in the shape of a pouncing lion. But outside of that they remained just as he remembered them being from when he was young and walked the gardens with Elia. She had been so nervous in the city, a fidgeting bird trapped in the dragons cage, but she learned to fly in the cage – that was until her wings were ripped off. 

Oberyn turned the corner in the gardens and paused, because for the first time in days the garden wasn’t empty. Sitting by the polished gold of the statue what was he assumed to be a Targaryen princess of old. Under the dimming lights her hair, greying silver was in a rough braid down her back coiling springs falling loose from the waist length tumble. She was knelt in the dirt, no doubt her white dress was dirty now, and was cautiously, with fumbling fingers weaving together ropes of flowers – daisies, roses, wildflowers, large blooming sunflowers and large daisies all being woven into a light little crown meant to fit on a small head. 

Not knowing what he was intruding on, he silently tipped forward until he was as close as he dared go to her, she had yet to notice him. But he could hear her mumbling to herself. Ruffling some leaves to signal his approach as to not frighten her he watched as her head bounced up eyes darting around before landing on him. She seemed to forget herself, staring at him for a moment her light purple gaze unnerving in this light. He hadn’t seen eyes like in many a millennia. All at once she seemed to remember herself, jumping up scramble about. Brushing her hands down her dirt dusted grey gown.

“My Prince.” She gave him a poorly done curtsey. He looked to the ground where picked flowers were scattered about. She flushed, the color rising bright and brilliant on her cheeks. 

“I was given permission to do this, My Prince!” She said, assuming she would be reprimanded. 

“It’s very beautiful work.” He said. He knelt and picked up one of the flowered rings, examining it. It was obviously beginners work, there was a graveyard of the ones that had failed her inspection around her feet. “In Dorne, we give girls flower crowns on the day they reach womanhood. The symbolize that they have blossomed.” He tells her. He looks up to find her still standing, hands crossed in front of her, obviously at a loss of what to do. 

“I didn’t meant to interrupt you, please, don’t stop on my account.” She eyed him warily before settling down in her seat again, taking her half down crown with her, weaving it. 

“May I inquire who chaperoned you to the tourney my lady?” There would be some sense if she was brought by the Dayne’s or anyone distantly related to the Targaryen’s – although those with dragon blood in them were all but nonexistent now. 

“My father, Lord Eddard Stark.” She whispered. The name started him, but of course realization dawned on him. This was the bastard. The smudge of charcoal on Eddard Stark’s clean record. Oberyn had never hid who he was, not to any of the women whom he had crept into bed with, or his paramour Ellaria. He saw no shame in a free and willing sexuality. He had had maybe hundreds of partners in his lifetime. However, Eddard Stark was not Oberyn Martell or even Robert Baratheon. So noble and northern in his ways to be swayed from his wedding vows had caused quite the stir. 

Of course, no one saw the evidence. The rumored mother died shortly after without having to confirm or deny and Ned Stark kept his bastard tightly under wraps.   
And now, Oberyn could see why. With her curly ash hair and lilac eyes she was the epitome of beautiful, in every since of the word. In Dorne, men would fight wars over her. The Dornish didn’t care about parentage or Bastards, but here – she is an anomaly, a beautiful stain on the map. 

“I’ve met Eddard Stark.” Oberyn mused. “A good man, one of the most honorable men I’ve ever met. After the horrible war, he sailed, alone – to return my sisters remains to her family. In the time in which cruelty had rained over my family, and I was overcome with grief – he came unto us.” He said. 

She looked up at him, peaking through her feather duster like eyelashes up at him: “Does that mean that you’re the red viper then?” She whispered. 

“That it what some call me, yes.” He said. 

“I’ve heard stories.” She whispers. “Will you be competing in the tourney?” She asked him. And that was the question of the hour, if he would ride his sand steed into the tourney and dance for Dorne, with the Mountain so close at hand. 

“I might.” He admitted. But it wasn’t for the chicken posturing of these men, he wanted to add, it was for something greater. Instead, he just watched her work.   
“Do you not think that someone will put a crown of flowers on your head this tourney my lady?” He asked, as she finished another ring. She fiddled with it between her hands, thin fingers with dirty fingernails rotated the crown, as if checking for imperfections. 

“They are for my sisters.” She said. “Just in case they don’t get the crown of flowers.” Oberyn felt a bit touched, she wanted to gift her sisters the crown of flowers in the chance that they weren’t given one by one of the tourney winners. 

“My sister Sansa is beautiful and charming though, I’m sure she will catch the eye of some gallant knight.” Though the girl sounded a bit sad about it. 

“And what about you? No crown of flowers for you?” He asked, leaning forward. Close as he was he caught every detail on here cream pale skin, the prominent blue vein under her lip, the purple of her eye lids and lilac still of her eyes, lilac with an iron grey rim. The ash color of her hair was created by a combination in strands which were springing from her braid. 

“I’m just a bastard, my lord.” She said bluntly. “No crown of flowers for me.” 

Oberyn thought of this. 

“I wouldn’t be so sure, my lady. A bastard you may be, but the most beautiful of bastards you are. I’m sure you are going to catch the eye of a gallant knight. For you have already caught the eye of me.” 

He left her there at that, intent to go back to Ellaria and tell her of the beauty he had spotted picking flowers in the castle gardens. He didn’t see the red rising up on her cheeks or her mouth agape like a fish. 

He had work to do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I went ahead and posted this because I wanted to see everyone's reactions! I love Oberyn and I'm definitely worried about representing him, so I hope he's good in your eyes, a few things of clarification: 
> 
> 1\. There are already questions about Robert recognizing her as a Targaryen and in my mind (and in this world) Robert loves Ned, and would defend him from anything - so I think he is content to think that she belongs to Ashara Dayne and doesn't want to question it, and wont stand for questioning from other people. 
> 
> 2\. I decided to age up Edric Dayne to about 16. I wanted him to be closer to her age, it could be used in his advantage as both Jaime and Oberyn are at least as old as her father. 
> 
> 3\. I don't want to change things about Oberyn and Ellaria, I feel like they come as a pair. 
> 
> Any other questions or comments can be directed into the comment section! I would love to hear what you think so let me know. The next chapter will be the first meeting between Edric and Jona which is told from a more voyeuristic point of view. Of course these are the three smaller intro chapters so now is the time to speak up! Before we really get the ball rolling. 
> 
> I do not own these characters 
> 
> Enjoy


	3. Edric Dayne in the Library

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Beric watches his ward watch the bastard of Winterfell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I do not own these characters.

Edric Dayne in The Library 

The Red Keep 

 

 

Beric watched again as his charge completely and totally lost focus, eyes peeling away from the page and almost as if the girl had put a spell on him, maybe she did, his unsettling blue-purple gaze settled on the girl, who – to her credit – did not once look over at Edric. 

She was preoccupied, as preoccupied as she had been since they had first entered the library so that he could teach is young ward some family history. They had found a small desk to sit out so they could speak close, and one that was close to a window so good light would pour in. Both fortunately and unfortunately that table was just down the way from where Ned Stark’s bastard had found a corner to settle herself. Taking small bites of a peach and reading a book. 

To his charges credit, the girl was beautiful – astoundingly so, in the sunlight that crept through the window her hair gleamed white, when the sun tucked behind the clouds her hair dulled to an interesting shade of grey. Beric was taken back for a moment, to one of the last times he had been in the Red Keep, and there had been a different figure that looked quite like her. But that man was long dead now. 

Ever so, his charge, the Lord of Starfall, couldn’t quite keep his eyes from going over there. 

Beric didn’t want to have to tell him what a bad idea that was. He was a Lord and would have to marry a lady, and as beautiful as she was, Jona Snow didn’t technically count as a lady. 

Beric nudged Edric with his boot lightly, stirring the boy from his tight staring. Realizing he’d been caught the boys tanned skinned reddened under Beric’s knowing gaze. 

“She’s quite beautiful.” He mumbled, as if that would excuse the way he was staring at her. “And I was just trying to see what book she was reading.” He tried to excuse, but Beric just raised a knowing brow. He had been a boy of one and six before, and knew that Edric had no interest in those books.   
Edric was a strange boy, always had been. He had many qualities of his uncle, Arthur – he a strong and fierce fighter, often the best for miles around – all the more worth to wield his sword but he lived in the clouds. His imagination often getting the better of him, Beric would watch him watch the clouds for hours on end, his mind elsewhere. Fierce with the sword, but gentle in the heart. 

“She is very beautiful aye.” He agreed. “so either get up and tell her you think she’s beautiful or sit here with me, presently, and finishing reading about the Dornish influence on Kings Landing.” Flushing even brighter than before Edric turned back to his book, and for a while it seemed that they were set to stay that way. Some time passed, Edric making a few comments about the text and inquiring if Beric knew anything of the such. 

They had been doing so well, but then the Snow girl got up from her spot and returned the tome from where she got it. He watched Edric’s eyes trace her figure as she scoped the shelves, looking for another text to read. 

“What do you know of her?” Edric said, so faintly that Beric almost couldn’t catch the words. Beric thought of this, and shrugged a bit. 

“As much as anyone knows I suppose, she is the North’s best kept secret. I’m frankly surprised that Ned brought her.” And he was. Eddard Stark was the most honorable man he knew and had heard of, and he knew that in his heart Ned kept the girl away not because he was ashamed but because he wanted her safe. Hidden, and now Beric could see why. She was perhaps the most beautiful woman he had ever seen, but that didn’t change the status of her birth. People would assume to take advantage of her because of her station. 

“She was born right after the Rebellion and fed by a nursemaid, they said Ned wouldn’t let anyone touch her, would keep her wrapped like he was her mother against his breast even as he rode, that’s why it took them months to reach Winterfell.” He said. Edric’s eyes never left her, tracking her like he was a predator. 

“They say her mother is Ashara.” 

“That’s what they say, yes.” Beric had been skeptical about that then, and he’s even more skeptical about it now. Looking at her it would be easy to mistake her for a Dayne, with her pale hair and purple eyes, but she was no Dayne. Her eyes were much too light, skin too pale, hair to silver. He knew exactly from whom she came, and probably so did everyone else. But under King Robert it was no one’s place to question the honorable and brave Ned Stark. 

“You don’t think that.” It wasn’t a question. 

“No, I don’t think that.” He confirmed. He watched his charge watch the girl for some time. She selected another text and went back to her spot, folding herself into the seat, long lilac dress trailing down the chair, sunlight shining down on her. 

“Do you think she will be at the Tourney?” Edric asked him. 

“I do, yes.” Beric answered. 

“You know what would be better than stalking her from across the room?” Beric asked his charge. He knew in his heart that Edric’s mind was made up about the woman, and nothing that Beric could say or do would change it. Edric looked at him questioningly. 

“A crown of winter roses.” He told him. If Edric was going to court the girl, he would have to do it smart. 

 

 

She left the library soon after, the youngest Stark girl had come barreling in the room, demanding her attention whilst covered in mud so she left to attend her. But Beric could see that her image had not left his mind, not at dinner that night as his eyes had searched for her and come up empty. Not as Margaery Tyrell was all but throwing herself at him, his mind didn’t seem to waver. 

If Beric knew one thing about the Dayne’s it was the stubbornness that was embedded in their very ancestral line. 

The bastard of Winterfell had caught the eye of Ser Edric Dayne, Lord of Starfall – and she hadn’t even said a word to him yet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay y'all this is the last of the intro chapters, next chapter we are jumping right into the meat of the story. I hope this chapter wasn't too cheesy? I kept thinking it was a very cheesy chapter. I'm still a little wobbly on Edric's personality type. But I love Beric so I chose to funnel him through there. A couple of notes: 
> 
> 1\. I had a hard time following the Dayne' family tree, so I assumed that Arthur was his uncle, if I am incorrect in this please, please tell me. Reading up on characters via Wikipedia can get confusing! So if anyone has any more information on him you all think I should know please, please leave it in the comment section! 
> 
> 2\. The next chapter will take place during the first day of the Tourney, I know NOTHING about Tourney's - so it will not be correct, it will not be right, I know. But I'm also trying to stretch it so that our characters can be together longer. So I'm staring the Tourney with a good old fashioned horse race. Again, if anyone knows anything about Tourney's and the like - I can definitely use the advice. 
> 
> 3\. I'm a sucker for comments so please drop some down below! 
> 
> 4\. Ready, Set, GAME ON


	4. Summer Roses

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The prize was a wreath of summer roses, a stockpile of gold, and the interest of one Jona Snow.

Beginning Day of the Tourney for Prince Tommen's Name Day   
Jona 

 

 

Jona looked dubiously around the stands and wondered – a bit belatedly – if this was why they had stayed away from the capitol as long as they have. This wasn’t what the stories had descripted at all. In the stories, Kings Landing was home of the golden Lannister Lion and the great Baratheon Stag. It was supposed to be full of knights with long swords and golden cloaks, it was supposed to be the revered place in all of the Seven Kingdoms but Jon found herself unimpressed. Having never left the north only a few times, and only having traveled as far as Bear Island, her father hadn’t wanted her to come to the capitol, not out of shame but more fear. He hadn’t wanted any of them to go, but Catelyn had all but pushed them out of the Winterfell. She knew what the real reason for trip was for, they didn’t care about Prince Tommen’s nameday (and from the whining from the boy, he didn’t either) They would need to secure a good match for both Sansa and Arya. 

 

Sansa found the whole thing terribly romantic, as she inclined to do. She was enraptured with the city, from the crowded streets with vendors, the food, to the knights and heirs. She had spent hours in their shared room every morning grooming herself, combing her hair a hundred times, brushing scented oils on her neck and smoothing the wrinkles out of her dress meticulously. Arya was less than pleased, and had made a habit of spending most of her time spying on the training grounds. She had made friends with the squires who fetch arrows and the son of the brown bread baker. Jona was neither disappointed or romanticized. The air was too thick and the food too sweet, and the knights all seemed to be in state of constant intoxication or groping some poor woman. It wasn’t at all the stories, but she found adventure elsewhere. 

 

However, sitting in the stands in the arena watching the knights show off their mounts surrounded by women in bowed dresses with knights in their best armor and men in shiny pressed doublets; Jona felt like an eyesore in her simple white dress and frizzing hair. 

Sansa looked every bit a queen in a navy blue gown, wearing the crown of sunflowers and daisies that Jona had woven for her, her red hair long and straight down her back. Arya looked like an angry little boy in a velvet dress, but her fierce scowl and bright grey eyes she was every the grey wolf of the north. Jona didn’t feel anything but hot. The thick moist heat of the Kings Landing had her feeling damp from head to toe. She knew her hair was losing its shape, the coils frizzing in the wet air. Her dress was a tad too big slipping off both her shoulder and down her chest , without any cloud cover her hair was ash grey, all together an unimpressive sight. 

From the corner of her eye she caught a glimpse of gold and let her eyes follow the gleam. Jaime Lannister rolled in on a white war horse. She let her eyes drift over his gold tinted armor and shiny white cloak, helm held under his arm. He was catching the eye of ever lady in the stand, as if their eyes couldn’t bear to look away. 

“He’s amazing isn’t he?” Sansa whispered to her, she didn’t respond. She had never told anyone what had happened when the King had visited Winterfell the year past. But she had thought of often, the way his Lannister green eyes looked in the dying sunset, hard as she tried to forget the memory persisted, embedded in her mind. The feel of his longsword in her hand, the way that every time she struck the practice dummy she could feel his eyes on her skin. At night when she lay in bed, her heart racing thinking of the future she would often find herself thinking of the past, during those moments and some form of peace would come over her. 

His house galloped a few circles around the arena, its powerful form snow white in the crowd of boastful chestnut mares. 

“The Kingslayer.” Arya hissed, leaning forward in her seat in excitement. Arya spent her days stalking around the red and gold cloaks, mimicking their movements with sticks in the room she shared with father at night. Who awoke every morning with Arya’s practice stick in his ribs and her little head jammed under his chin. 

They watched his horse trudge past the stands, there were a few other knights of note strutting about. Ser Gregor Clegane stood the tallest and broadest of them, Jona found herself disappointed that the horrors its rumored he has committed over his years didn’t exclude him from being a knight or in the very least, participating in tourneys with other knights of great honor. His brother, Sandor Clegane was also a knight – although of much less note, but still commonly called The Hound. He wasn’t participating, he spent much of his time standing guard to Prince Joffrey, looking absolutely bored out of his mind. Gregor Clegane was a hulking man in armor that was as dark as night; his black helm was shaped as menacing pyramid on top of his head. Ser Gregor seemed to spend most of his time growling at passerby’s and visiting brothels, or at least, that’s what Arya told her. 

There were two Tyrell Knights there, Sansa fawned over both of them with equal fervor. They were perhaps the most made-up of the knights in their beautiful sweeping capes and shiny silver armor. Loras Tyrell wore a navy cloak done up in woven golden roses, his grey war horse tearing past the stands, instigating awes from all the bowed women. Garlan Tyrell’s armor was also shiny silver, as if someone had buffed it seconds before he entered the arena, his forest green cloak also decorated with the golden Tyrell rose. 

On a mahogany colored mare was Ser Edric Dayne of Starfall, there had been lots of gossip surrounding his visit to Kings Landing, but there he was standing in armor the color red wine, his hair so blonde it was nearly white. Next to him on a tower steed that was pitch black in color and red in tail and mane was Oberyn Martell. His horse was a towering sand steed that was famous for its owner. Both of them looking so otherworldly here, in their strange armor and accents. Though she had not heard Lord Edric speak, she had heard a giggling flock of handmaidens that belonged to the Tyrell’s gush over it in the public bathing house. His white-blonde hair stood out against rest.

Jona was bent over, scribbling as much of this as she could into her journal, a small well of ink sat in its glass container on her fabric covered knee, Sansa nudged her, nearly knocking the precariously balanced ink over in her haste. It wobbled nervously. 

“You’re never even watching.” Her sister complained, though there was no real heat to the words. But Sansa wanted someone to watch with her, to bask in the handsomeness of the knights and dresses of the ladies. Arya seemed only fascinated with their weapons, craning her neck to get a better look. Jona brought her quill down, writing down a few last details about Ser Edric’s armor before setting the quill down and bringing the journal to her lips to blow on the ink. 

She roped the pages shut and put it on top of the ink, tightly binding it closed so it didn’t spill in the satchel. Then she tucked the satchel under her legs. By the time she looked up again the knights were in the arena doing their posturing and speaking to one another, most had removed their helmets.   
“So beautiful” Sansa breathed, eyes drifting between the Tyrell brothers languidly. 

“Look at that sword.” Ser Edric Dayne had pulled his shining golden blade form his back and was showing it to Oberyn Martell, who in turn admired the blade, running a finger across it. Jona wished she were closer as to get a better look of it. Even looking at Oberyn Martell made Jona blush. He had found her the evening before as she had been weaving together her sister’s crowns. She had heard stories of the red viper from the boys and from small books that she had absconded that were newer. To see him in person was a different experience. He moved like his namesake, quiet and deadly, she hadn’t even known he had approached until the rustle of leaves (that she was sure was purposeful) made her look up. 

“Who do you think will win?” Sansa asked, dreamily and detached. Her mind still heavily up in the clouds. Sansa had no real care who won so Jona turned to Arya, who was squinting at the horses attentively. The tourney would begin with a race, as was tradition. 

“It will be close” Arya said, Jona nodded along. It would be. The Sand Steeds were the fastest so that put Prince Oberyn and Ser Edric Dayne in the running. But Willas Tyrell was known for breeding fantastic horses, strong and powerful, so the Tyrell brother’s were a close second. Jaime Lannister’s horse was Lannisport war horse, and was undoubtedly fast, but weighed down by the gold decorations on the knights armor. 

“Prince Oberyn.” Jona announced. “But it will be close.” His armor was lighter and his horse was taller than Ser Dayne’s. All of the horses lined up and with a shout – they were off. The stand positively shook from the force of the horses. They had gotten generous seats because of Kings Robert’s love for their father. They shielded their faces as the horses flew past to protect their eyes from the sand that arose as they stampeded past. Ser Edric’s steed rode hard and fast, but not fast enough, as Prince Oberyn’s steed had finished mere seconds before his own. It was as close as Jona predicted, Prince Oberyn had won, only beating out Ser Edric by mere seconds, the Tyrell brothers came crashing in third and behind them trailed Jaime Lannister.

The host handed Prince Oberyn his crown, a wreath of summer roses all red, and orange and yellow bound together with baby’s-breath, he accepted it with grace and mockingly placed it on his own head before he began to eye the stands, leisurely pacing his horse around. There was talk that he had brought his Dornish Paramour, Jona knew he would put it on her head. But as he circled the arena, she could hear whispers erupt in the stands, the women dramatically fanning themselves. His stead passed them once and slowed as it approached a second time. 

Sansa, who proudly wore the flower crown that Jona had made her, gasped out loud. Arya, who refused to wear the crown but wrapped it around her wrist like a bracelet, let her mouth pop open. Both Jona and Arya turned to Sansa expectantly. Oberyn Martell removed his helm, that had a snake eloquently crowned on it, and placed it under his arm. She realized at that moment that she was sweating, and that the memory of him in the garden had come back to her so strong that she could hear his accent reverberating in her ears like a mockingbird. 

“To the most beautiful flower in the garden.” He announced, his accent making the words slur together beautifully. He held his hand out. It took Jona more than a moment to realize that he was holding his hand out to her, acutely aware that everyone was staring she gave him her sweaty and shaking palm, and he brought it to his lips. She could hear Sansa making a sound that was a high-pitched squeal. Arya looked vaguely disgusted. 

“Lady Jona, may I present to you this token, though it shies in comparison to your beauty, I gift it to you.” 

 

 

And the crown was placed on her head.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. I warned you all I had no real knowledge of Tourney's but I'm slowly learning, I decided to start it off with a race because I just kind of needed a scene with all of them in it, I've sort of framed it so that after every event there will be a small prize and of course the winner of the Joust (yes?) gets the crown of winter roses. 
> 
> 2\. I love Oberyn Martell, but he is so hard to write. 
> 
> 3\. I didn't want any of the girls too far out of character, I did loosen Sansa up which is necessary because I loosened Catelyn up, since in this universe she knows the truth. 
> 
> 4\. See who I'm adding up in characters!? That's right. There is going to be a bonus chapter from the perspective of Barristan Selmy, I'm going to be adding these smaller chapters so that we can see reactions about Jona from other people, especially people who knew Rhaegar. If you can think of any more that you would like to hear from please let me know!
> 
> 4.5: Also this is the first chapter in Jona's perspective so let me know what you think of her!  
> 5\. Let me know what you think, so anxious to hear back!


	5. A Feast for Knights

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Tourney's first feast

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> New Chapter! Let me know what you think in the comment section.

**A Feast For Knights**

 

 

**The Red Keep**

**The Rooms of Sansa and Jona**

**Post Tourney**

 

 

_“Though it shies in comparison to your beauty.”_

Sansa mocked for the hundredth time that day, Jona splashed her sister. They were knee to knee in the tub. As girls they had grown up bathing, eating and sleeping together. Though Jona was a bastard, Catelyn had never shied from throwing her together with the other girls. Being away from home didn’t remove any closeness that they had. The water was steaming, their long hair tangling together in the misty water, as soon as was appropriate they had bustled from the opening ceremony of the tourney with their father, who had all but locked them in their room, even leaving Jory outside to guard the door.

Arya had since fallen asleep only in her small clothes on the bed and Sansa and Jona had decided on a bath, though Arya seemed to be stirring now, their giggles probably waking her.

“What do you know of Prince Oberyn?” Jona inquired, leaning back in the bath. Sansa had spent a lot of time out and about with the ladies of the court, who seemed to know everything about everyone. At this time Arya stumbled from the bed, shedding her small clothes without asking she shimmied into the tub, leaning her head on Jona’s breast. They bask in the water together for a few moments, if so much sunlight wasn’t coming through the canopy over the window it would be just like home.

“They say he and his paramour have many children together but he is not just faithful to her. He has never married, though.” Sansa said.

“Don’t marry Prince Oberyn, you’ll live too far away and your husband will be laying with your maids.” Arya slurred, still tired from her short nap.

“Arya,” She admonished. “I’m not marrying anyone, and no one wants to marry me.” Arya sat up in the tub, wet hair sticking to the base of her neck. The rough chop had been done by Robb with a dagger in the woods, Jona wondered if it would ever be even ever again.

“Why wouldn’t anyone want to marry you?” Arya asked, blinking at her in the only the way a little sister could.

“I’m a bastard.” She reminded. “I come with now dowry or title.”

“You’re also a good fighter, and singer, and you ride well.” Arya listed off. Jona smiled sadly, knowing that if those things meant anything in this world she would be quite the catch indeed.

“Besides, the Prince certainly looked like he wanted to marry you.” Arya finished.

“He wanted to lay with her.” Sansa said bluntly.

“Don’t let him do that!” Arya squealed her face scrunched up and expression disgusted. Sansa and Jon laughed, as they cleared joyful tears from their eyes the key on the door jangled and began to open, but they didn’t startle, only one person had a key – father. The thick drapes around the bath protected their modesty and smothered some of their giggles as their father entered, they could hear him sit on their rumpled bed.

“I could hear your giggles from the down the hall.” He teased, this only fueled them more. “I haven’t come to ruin them. Clean yourselves I have something to speak to you about.” They washed each others hair and scrubbed clean with haste, Arya only growling a few times as Jona ran the comb through her tangled locks. The shrugged on dressings gowns and sleeping dresses before presenting themselves to their father, hair still damp with petals sticking to it, their father took note of this:

“Did you destroy your crown?” He asked, plucking a stray orange petal from her wet hair. She had crushed up some of the roses and added them to the hot water.

“I did.” She admitted. Arya dove at their father, laying her arms about his middle and resting upon him. It was a game they used to play as children, they would all tackle father to the floor, and it didn’t matter where – outside in a bank, inside in the kitchens, and hold him still. The boys grew out of it much quicker than the girls did, but Jona knew that he probably didn’t mind. Sansa and Jona gave each other mutual shrugs before joining their sister in holding their father down, resting their head on his broad chest. The thump of his heart was a familiar sound in Jona’s ear, sometimes she could hear it in her dreams. It was possibly the most soothing sound the world.

“I didn’t think I would have to be the one to have this talk with you.” Their father finally admitted, after a few moments of silence. Their father was a man of little words, it wasn’t unusual for him to enter a room and leave it before even saying a word. “But as your father it’s my responsibility to keep you safe. Even from gallant knights and suitors.” Jona felt her face heating up. She had never blushed this much in her life.

“I knew you all grew up with stories of the honor and gallantry of knights and heirs – but I only want you to remember that they are still men, and all men have evil intentions. I am a lucky man that I have three healthy, beautiful daughters, but I worry for you. Do not think someone’s vows will keep them from trying to lead you astray.” In that moment, Jona could hear how wary and exhausted her father sound. As tired as she ever heard him, “Do you understand?” He asked.

“Yes, papa.” They said, dropping their formalities. Jona felt like a little girl again, laying her head on her father’s chest, fresh from the bath.

“Good, you must rest little doves. And write a letter to your mother. The feast will be late tonight.” He untangled himself easily, they gave little fight. He gave them a stern look as he went out the door.

“No roughhousing in here, just rest.” He closed the door.

They could hear him speaking to the guard outside the door, ** _“no one, not even the king himself, is allowed inside.”_ **

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

They had lounged for about the first hour or so, falling in and out of sleep. But as time progressed and the sun began to set they grew restless. Sansa had begun to smooth out her dress and brush her hair, applying sweetly scented oils to her skin. Arya, in true Arya fashion, had pulled out her practice stick and began to swing it, it made Jona saddened that she hadn’t brought her own practice sword. They used to spend hours together in the training yard doing their own version of practicing without the watchful eyes of Jory or Father.

Jona had unbound her journal and tried to recount details of the Tourney to write for later, but her usually sharp memory seemed dulled today. She was only able to remember small details, like how Jaime Lannister looked on his war horse and the feeling of Oberyn Martell’s lips on her skin. Frustrated at herself she shut the binder and bound it together with its silk and leather ties and began to wrangle Arya to get her ready for the feast. With Arya fussing she arranged her sisters hair into a braid and the crown of her head, breaking off more of the roses to put into the braid. Arya’s dress was a light blue affair with little wolves sewn in at the hem. Sansa had done it on the way to the Capitol, not that Arya appreciated the effort. Sansa’s own gown was one that their lady mother had had prepared. A flared and flowing regal blue gown that both clung and smoothed, Jona neatly pinned her sisters hair away from her face. She had spent many days in her childhood dressing Sansa and Arya, they weren’t often apart.

Quite like Bran, Rickon and Robb – although closer in age. But Robb had Theon. Jona shifted, uncomfortable a bit in her own dress, the light grey dress was not quite white, but close enough. The long sleeve clenched at her wrist and the neckline showed a bit more than she was comfortable with, but Catelyn had had it prepared for her, so she wasn’t going to change. It was special, when Catelyn would do things like this for her. She had grown up with the love of the woman, but publicly they had to be a bit more discreet, she could only call her _‘mother’_ in the safety of their chambers.

Father came to gather them for the feast in his traditional wear, he didn’t seem like he had at all had to prepare to come, which made Jona all the more jealous of the male lifestyle. They didn’t have to wear tight dresses to feasts, or uncomfortable slippers or pinch their cheeks for a proper blush. Jona fanned herself lightly, feeling a warmth settle under her dress from the heat of the castle. The feast was glorious, or at least it was supposed to be, the tables were draped in yellow and gold cloth, each table had a host of food – a roast boar, potatoes of all shapes and colors, brown bread and beans.

The Stark’s were given a seat close the hosts family, King Robert smiling drunkenly down at Father. Jona couldn’t quite understand the King’s fascination with Father. Father had told them some tales of King Robert but it didn’t quite line up to the real thing, the war hero was gone, it was mostly just a large drunk man now. She could see hints of the old war hero sometimes she thought, in the way his eyes followed the fights in the training yard. But he was enamored with Father, they were given special rooms and good seats at the tourney. It was an odd affair, that their solemn father could be so close to this man. They were seated at the same table as the Tyrell’s, who were special guests of the Lannister’s.

Jona didn’t know much about the Tyrell’s outside of their roses and horses. When the family approached they gave them respectful bows and curtsey’s and Jona found herself seated across from Olenna Tyrell.

Dinner began with a speech by the King and the Queen. King Robert spent only a little while on Tommen, who was more enamored with the gift table (that hosted many caged animals, weirdly enough.), he spent most of the time talking about the rest of the Tourney and the matches, and Tourney’s past. After he settled in his seat the Queen stood to give her speech, Jona studied the Queen. She was blonde and beautiful, one of the most beautiful women that Jona had ever seen. She waxed poetics about Tommen, who still didn’t seem to care much, before sitting down. As she sat – Jona met her eyes. For just a brief moment lilac met forest green. The Queen seemed to be studying her back. Her eyes bouncing from Jona’s hair, to her dress back up to her eyes the Queen’s mouth clenched and she looked away. Grateful to look away she pulled her gaze away, only to get trapped in the eyes of Olenna Tyrell. She immediately glanced away, safely down at her plate.

“Three daughter’s Lord Stark?” Olenna asked, her voice was impressive in its strength, barely polite.

“And three sons.” He answered. Olenna scoffed. “Your poor wife must be exhausted. Tell me you’ll give her a break?” She sipped her wine in a way that made Jona think the woman had been holding a wine glass since birth. “But still, three daughters you have my sympathies. We have a hard enough time with just one.” Jona glanced out of the corner of her eyes at Margaery Tyrell, a true summer child with berry brown skin and a plunging neckline.

“The girls are much better behaved than the boys.” Jona could have snorted. Arya _did_ snort. They most certainly were not better behaved than the boys. Even Sansa, in all her proper glory, could be seen chasing her siblings with practice swords in retaliation.

“And so pretty too.” Olenna tutted.

“Have you found matches for them?” Father tensed. Sansa nudged him under the table.

“No. We are in no great hurry.” Olenna scoffed again, Jona wondered if the sound just naturally occurred from the woman’s mouth with no filter.

“They didn’t like about you did they? One of the most honorable men alive. Probably the only man in the Seven Kingdoms who isn’t ready to sell and ship his daughters.”

“You all look most beautiful tonight.” Margaery gushed from the end of the table. “Are those northern style dresses? I’ve not been that far north?” Margaery was staring at them with batting doe eyes. Sansa engaged her in conversation, eyes darting to Loras every once in a while. Jona kept her head down, pushing her potato’s and meat together.

“You’re a pretty one.” Olenna said, from across the table. She mumbled her thanks, feeling the heat from the feast gathering under her dress and heating her face.

“Such unique hair.” Margaery gushed.

“What color do you call that?”

“Wonder where she gets it.” Olenna said bluntly, it wasn’t a question, just a statement of curiosity. “How are bastards treated in the north?”

“Jona is part of our family, she is as loved and cherished as any of my children.” There was mostly silence at the table after that. Dessert was served and slowly dancers filed out to the floor. Loras put his wine down and leaned forward.

“Lady Sansa may I be honored to have this first dance?” The two of them, almost too beautiful for eyes swept onto the dance floor. They danced a few rounds and returned laughing as father left them to attend the King. Arya grumbled as Sansa returned.

“How was the floor brother?” Margaery asked.

“Lively.” He responded. Before Jona could inquire after her sister another presence joined them at the table, a shadow cast over her back. The table fell silent, even though there hadn’t been much talking before. She turned around in her chair to face who was behind her. It was Ser Edric Dayne, in a red wine colored doublet and black shiny boots. His white blonde hair was slicked back from his forehead, putting his dark violet-indigo eyes on display.

“Good evening. My name is Edric Dayne, I would love to have this first dance.” His eyes felt like they were burning a hole in her eyes. He held out a hand to her. She hadn’t realized that she had froze until Sansa nudged her from the side. She took his hand and he swept her out to the floor. Holding onto her upper arm until they were upon the floor, holding one of her hands in his he rested his other above her hip and they danced. Jona could hear Septa Mordane in her head, guiding her steps along.

“Pardon my intrusion in your meal Lady Jona.” He said, speaking down at her. He was like, like most of the men here, quite a bit taller than her.

“It’s all right.” She told him, feeling a bit flustered. “You performed well during the race today.” She told him. He had only been a hair of an inch behind Oberyn after all.

“Not well enough apparently. But I thank you all the same.” He said.

“No, truly. Your horse was impressive. I’m quite jealous, we don’t have horses like that in the North.”

“I have had her for quite some time, I was worried about her during the journey here but she’s done remarkably well.” He said.

“Is this your first time in the Capitol?” He asked. She nodded her head best as she could, with her head so close to his chest. He had a slight accent, not as dramatic as Prince Oberyn’s but there all the same. He had been some distance away the last time she saw him, but up close he was a different specimen all together. The planes of his face were losing their youth, his jaw was edged and his hair was longer than she had initially thought. She had seen him about the castle during their stay, walking with his guards, two men and a host of knights in violet cloaks.

“Well then I beg you, on the morrow will you allow me to escort you to see the cliffs. The water is nearly like the water in Dorne or the beaches of Starfall. You can see all the way to the bottom it is so clear.”

“With no escort Lord Dayne?” Came from behind them. Dance interrupted they turned toward the voice, although Jona already knew it. Jaime Lannister looked the beautiful knight that he was, in dark trousers and a golden doublet, a white cloak.

“She of course is free to bring whomever she would like with her as an escort. Though I would never beseech her honor.” Lord Edric said, raising his chin at the Lannister. Who was just a tad taller than him.

“That’s what they all say I’m sure.” Jaime dismissed Edric by looking away from him. “Lady Jona.” He addressed her. “You look beautiful tonight. May I have the honor of having your next dance?” He asked, his voice silky smooth.

“Don’t you find it rude, Ser Jaime, to ask a lady for a dance while she is currently engaged in one?” Lord Edric asked him. Jona’s head bounced back in forth, feeling for a moment like she was watching Bran and Rickon fight over a toy.

 _But these were not little boys_ , she thought, these were men. Heir’s to great houses with great swords strapped to their hips. The heir to Casterly Rock and the Lord of Starfall. She could hear scuffling from the back corner of the room, but didn’t look back to engaged in what was happening before her eyes.

“Well I would have waited for her to take a seat but you seemed content to keep her here all night, I figured she should at least be able to dance with other partners.” Ser Jaime said, the retort rolling off his tongue.

“I didn’t know other men wanted a dance, last I looked you were indulging the Queen.” There was something to the words, a warning or a snarky tone, but she couldn’t place why. The sounds from behind her grew louder, it sounded like some knights were getting into a scuffle – which wasn’t new. She had seen them fight each other like dogs in her time here, and on the road. They were often high strung and bored.

“Well, she is my dear sister. But I noticed the beautiful Lady of Winterfell and now I’m asking for a dance.” He directed that at her.

Before she could fathom an answer, ( _which she wouldn’t because what could she possibly say?)_ a cry of warning came from behind her a simple: _“Watch out!”_

 

 

And then there was nothing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> LOL I'M SO SORRY   
> I love this chapter. There's a lot so lets unpack a bit: 
> 
> 1\. Both Sansa and Catelyn are a little OOC in this because I just want them to be warmer, I want Sansa to love her sister and since it's so OBVIOUS that Jona is not Ned's child, Catelyn and he have had the conversation about Lyanna some time ago. 
> 
> 2\. I wanted to emphasize the closeness that the girls have in this chapter because it's going to be needed. Especially when it comes to Jona needing chaperone's and good information. Can everyone just LOL with me for a moment about Arya being a chaperone? 
> 
> 3\. Olenna Tyrell is a badass. That is all. 
> 
> 4\. I love Robert's friendship-obsession with Ned and I don't want it to end. 
> 
> 5\. Ned is clearly aware of what's going on here and isn't pleased. It's obvious that he would worry quite a bit about his girls in the capitol but Jona has much more to lose (her life) if people find out about her or dig too deep. So he's very clearly a little protective of his children. 
> 
> 6\. If a fight doesn't start a feast, is it really a feast? 
> 
> 7\. I'll give a shout out to the first person who guesses what happened to Jona at the end. 
> 
> I do not own these characters   
> DROP ME A COMMENT!


	6. Escape to Flea Bottom

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jona wakes, she reads, she contemplates, she buys.

Escape to Flea Bottom  
Chapter Six 

 

 

Everything was happening in flashes. There was a cold and solid surface underneath her that she realized was the ground, hard and unforgiving against her back. Which disgusted her for more than one reason, she had seen what the floors had looked like. She made an attempt to sit up, but hands – wide and calloused – held her down.  
“My lady, please do not attempt to move.” That was Lord Edric, warm hand encased on either side of her head. She could feel her ropes of hair crushed uncomfortably against her body weight. A dull throbbing started up on the right side of her head. 

“Find the man who did this. Bring him to me.” That was Ser Jaime, in a booming voice. 

“We can worry about that later, we need to get her to a Maester. Where is Lord Stark?” Ser Edric sounded like he was walking farther away his voice tunneling down at her. 

“My lady, don’t close your eyes.” He said, which was odd, because she had no idea her eyes were open. 

“Enough of this squabbling.” Came the deepest voice she had ever heard. But it was booming or loud, but much like distant thunder. A pair of large hands, the size of dinner plates, grasped her forearms and hefted her up and situated her over a pair of arms that felt like iron. 

“Don’t worry my lady, all will be well.” And then there was nothing. 

 

 

She slept in fits and spurts, she could hear life happening around her but like her brain was under water she could make no move to join them. Distantly she recognized a few voices, her fathers, the King’s, and Sansa’s mewling crying. But none of it was enough to take her from her slumber, so she slept on. She came back alive to the felling of a dull throbbing on the right side of her face. She could hear small noises from across the room, a light snoring above her head and the familiar scent of her father. She knew the heavy weight on top of her must be the heavy blankets in her room. Tentatively she peaked an eye open. It was day light, or getting close to it at least, hints of new sunlight peaking through the drapes. Her left eye popped open and her right eye sluggishly followed, bringing a burning pulling sensation to her face. She was tucked onto her fathers breast like a swaddled babe – his arm draped over her shoulder, it reminded her of the story she had heard when she was a child, the story of when she had come down the pox. The Maester’s thought she would die, her cough had kept everyone up. Lady Catelyn had planned to have her buried in the tombs, but father, despite her contagious ailment wrapped her in a blanket, covered his mouth with a cloth and stayed with her for the duration of her illness.  
She imagined he looked then much like he did now, tired and weary but determination set in his brow. She wiggled a bit, nudging her ear closer to the steady of his heartbeat the movement jostled him his grey northern eyes flew open and peaked down at her – grinning. 

“Good morning little dove.” He said, his voice rough with sleep. She went to speak to him, but she found opening her mouth brought more intensity to the pulling sensation on her face, her mouth filling with blood. Her father grimaced, shifting to get up. 

“I’ll get the maester.” He announced, she stopped him with her arm, working hard to find words. 

“What happened?” she asked her own voice surprising her in its weakness. An emotion crossed her father’s face that she had not seen often, fury raw in his expression.  
“Tw of Roberts Kings guard.” He spat the word. “had a bit too much ale and had a tumble, you took the hilt of a blade to your face.” The words froze her, how easy for it to have been the blade itself. It could have killed her. 

“Apparently there had been a bit of a scuffle. Thankfully, Ser Barristan was there to take control of the situation.” He grumbled something else illegible under his breath. She feels a bit fuzzy, like her head is full of sheep wool. 

“Ser Barristan…” She trails “As in..” Her mind slowly gaining speed, “Ser Barristan the Bold.” If she didn’t feel like she had gotten bashed in the side of the head she would be incorrigibly excited. Ser Barristan the Bold. A knight, whom she had heard tales about read about her whole life! 

“Yes. You gave us quite the fright.” He removed himself from her octopus like grip. “I’ll go fetch the Maester.” He slipped from her grasp. Maester Pycelle comes bustling in some time later and behind him trailing a few familiar faces. 

She had had time to situate herself, despite the pain ringing in her skull she leans against the headboard in the room and straightens her night gown trying to make herself presentable, feeling all the while like she was having an out of body experience. Much of her trip has felt as such, like she was floating on a raft under a cloudless sky, completely out of control but not stopping it nonetheless. With him the Maester brings Sansa and Arya, who huddle around the bed and squawk like birds at her, Sansa crying, Arya red in the face and furious. Her father and Jory come as well, watching as the Maester performs his examination. He deems her still healthy and that she should have no lasting effects outside of a few headaches and sleepiness. He does tell her that she should spend the day resting, and slips her some milk of the poppy and the rest of her day is spent afloat. 

 

 

 

She sleeps all of that day away, when she wakes next on her bedside table a vase of wildflowers stood tall and strong, they were multicolored and beautiful and she thought how pretty they would be woven into a crown on Sansa’s head. Next to the vase were a stack of finger thick notes all pressed and sealed. She sat up in bed, shrugging on her robe, leaving it untied at the waist she pulled the first note and broke the seal. The first note was from the King and Queen, and said nothing except a small prayer for her swift recovery. The next note was from the Tyrell’s a prayer for her good health with all of their names signed in flowery script. The next card she picked up had the red wax seal of house Lannister on it. She had to use a letter opener to pry open the thick paper, the note was written in dark burgundy ink and done by a sure hand. She read with greedy eyes: 

 

 

‘Lady Jona of Winterfell,  
You gave us quite a fright, but I shall not forget that we did not get to share a dance. Please accept my invitation to take you to see the cliffs. They are the most beautiful sight in all of Kings Landing. I would never dishonor you, but please choose a chaperone of your liking. – Jaime Lannister.’ 

 

 

For a few moment she wondered what this note meant. She had never in all of her years dreamed that anyone would willingly court her, least of all someone like Jaime Lannister, heir to the great Casterly Rock, twin brother to the queen and son of the great Tywin Lannister. She was a bastard, she came with no dowry or title, she was also no Sansa – more comfortable in trousers than silken skirts. She put the note down onto her pillow and reached for the next one. The paper was of her richer texture and almost felt like fabric in her hands, she wondered how much paper like this would cost, to put into her journal. The seal was heavy with lilac wax, it was a sword crossing over a falling star. Her strict lessons from Septa Mordane came to mind, this was house Dayne of Starfall. She gently tore into the note, feasting on it with her eyes. 

 

 

“Lady Jona Snow, of Winterfell,  
I am immensely glad to hear that you are doing well, we prayed for you health all through the night. I am however, saddened to this day that I did not get a chance to finish my dance with the White Wolf of Winterfell. On my Honor. Ser Edric Dayne of Starfall, Sword of the Morning” 

 

 

The white wolf if Winterfell, what an oddity. She wondered where it came rom. The last note was on crisp white paper, in dark yellow gold ink and it wasn’t sealed, only folded. There was no formal or even a header to announce the sender but she knew who it was all the same. 

 

 

“Don’t fret the day away. Rest and bathe in cool water, we shall lunch another day.” Prince Oberyn of Dorne. 

 

 

The evening past slow and concise. Sansa and Arya were allowed back into the room after her evening meal. Sansa greedily read Jona’s letters, flushing and fawning. Arya who was young enough that she typically had to share a room with father was given permission to stay with her sisters. They slept packed like fish, face squished against breast, hair entangled together. Jona dreamed of parchment that felt like silk, an accent like rolling hills and the eyes of a lion. 

The next morning brought breakfast of honeyed oats and a warm bath with crushed wildflowers in it. Sansa rubbed lavender oil in her hair and in turn Jona wrestled Arya to the ground and wound her hair into a decent looking braid. 

“What are you going to do today?” She asked Arya, as she helped her sister dress in her leggings and simple brown dress. 

“Hot Pie is going to show me a secret passage to the training yard.” She said excitedly. Jona smiled as Sansa worried her lip. 

“Be careful.” She warned, “Don’t get into trouble.” 

“And what about the lovely Sansa?” Jona asked her sister, who was twisting her fiery hair back. 

“Margaery Tyrell has invited me to sit with her today.” She announced proudly, Arya wrinkled her nose. 

“You’re just going to sit all day?” Arya asked, confused. 

“We’ll do embroidery, have lunch and speak about things. She’s going to show me how they embroider their knights cloak.” Arya’s nose stayed wrinkled and Jona had a momentary pause at how positively different her sisters were. 

“What are you going to do today Jo?” Arya asked, reverting to a childhood nickname. 

“I think I’m going to go down to the shops, I need new writing supplies and some fabric.” Sansa blanched – 

“You’re going to go down there by yourself?” She squeaked. 

“Yes.” Jona answered, decidedly. “Don’t look so worried, I’ll be fine.” After all, she wouldn’t be going unarmed. 

Jona received a few odd looks as she left the red keep, in a simple lavender dress with her hair down. It covered most of the bruising, which looked absurdly violent against her pale skin. She felt more welcome in flea bottom pursuing the tables than at a feast in the castle. The atmosphere was alive – people bustling about, vendors shouting from their stations, no one even glanced her way. The air was alive with a variety of smells, a musk that made her nose wrinkle but also spice of street food. She had dropped a few silver coin on an apple that had been dunked in browned sugar. She approached a table headed by an elderly woman, she looked over the table the wells of different dye ink. She chose a plum purple and a dark traditional black. Time escaped her as she jumped from table to table, she purchased golden thread for Sansa, and a sword belt for Arya and a few key things for herself. A hair brush, a couple of squares of patch fabric. 

She was oddly proud of the amount of purchases she had acquired, Her father had raised her to be frugal and she had taken to haggling with the vendors like she was born to the streets. 

The sun was lowering the sky by the time she was bent over a jewelers table. It was nothing fine, but small trinkets for hair and feet. A commotion sounded from behind her, she had noticed around the noon hour that more red cloaks had entered the market and people didn’t take too well to them, they were rough with the people, shoving past women and children. 

She did as everyone else was doing and ignored them, from behind her a rush of purple cloaks ran past – she had never seen knights in those colors before. As she bent over the table she was startled back by a hand holding onto her upper arm – she wrestled free, tugging her arm away and pinning a look at the intruder. 

“Are you Jona Snow?” He was a slightly pudgy boy with a red sweaty face, his brown cloak was dirty and he looked ab it like he was drowning in his armor. 

“Maybe, who’s asking?” She demanded. 

 

“I am Podrik Payne, The Squire of Jaime and Tyrion Lannister, My Lady the whole castle is looking for you!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another cliff hanger. Don't you hate me? The other chapter is not going to take as long as this one did! I split this chapter in two so I could fit more material. Enjoy!
> 
> Up next: Jona returns to a confrontation between two of her suitors.


	7. Conflict in the Keep

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Earlier that morning...

Conflict in the Keep

Earlier That Morning 

 

 

 

Edric supposed that the red keep could be called the red keep for a number of reasons. The connection it had with the people of old, the old Targaryen’s and their families, that would make sense. Maybe it was the décor, the walls are dark rich red, dark gold lion statues prowled around every corner, every drape and table cloth in the place was Lannister red, or worse – Lannister gold. He supposed it could be called the red keep because of the blood shed, that would be poetic. 

Either way, he was ready to be done with the place. In moments of bleak honesty in the middle of the night, laying underneath his furs he knew that he only reason he had come here at all was to put his home back on the map of thing, make them matter again. A lot of people had forgotten about the Dayne’s since the end of the Targaryen rule, and Edric thought that was a bit of a shame. He was more than a boy-lord, he was the Morning Star, leader of his people and currently on a mission.   
The halls of the red keep bustled during the day, they seemed to have an endless amount of staff wandering about, maids with their baskets and soldiers in their armor, it seemed every man in King’s Landing was given a set of good armor, if nothing more than to just wear it. He bet, no – knew, that half the men in that knightly armor couldn’t wield a sword to save his own soul. 

But that was all part of the act of course, the whole pomp and circumstance of Kings Landing. None of it actually mattered. His own quarters overlooked the sea and he supposed they were kind enough to do that on purpose, his longing for home looking down at the sandy beaches only made him want to get on the next boat and sail home. But there was of course work to be done here first. 

He made another right, his boots heavy on his feet as he strode down the hall, not losing his confidence, in his hand gripped a nice bouquet. He had sent out for the flowers earlier in the morning, a dazzling bouquet of colors, red and purple, white and pink. Behind him his men marched in tight formation, dark purple cloaks billowing behind them. Every singe one of his men deserved and worked for those cloaks, for that he was sure. Behind his right elbow Beric merrily followed, whistling a little tune underneath his breath. He wasn’t disapproving of Edric’s mission, perhaps just the way he was going about it. Beric was a strategy man, he was all about putting a map down with little wooden figurines, he was about writing the full plan and a full rehearsal before the go of things. Edric was more spontaneous but no less thoughtful, he couldn’t afford to be. Though he was a young man he was still the leader of his people. And being the leader of his people brought this new mission to him, at the forefront of his mind wrapped in a pretty package with purple eyes and silver-grey hair and clumsy feet. 

Their dance had played behind his eyelids all throughout the night, the little pressures of her feet accidently stamping his, the way her small hands felt anything but dainty, callouses on her palms and thumbs like she had been holding a sword since birth, eyes down cast. He played it back in his mind and thought back to stories he had heard as a child, of Targaryen princesses, of what Edric had told him that first night he spotted her in the library, the suspicions of her parentage, the circumstances of which she was smuggled back home shrouded in secrecy. And then it had come to him. 

Though he was still a young man, of only one and six, in the view of his people he was an old maid. He should have been married off some time ago, but Beric and his closest advisors had staved that off for some time because much had to be done and he was still learning the ways of his own keep which took of most of his focus and day, but he was one of the last of his line and he would need to get to work on remedying that situation at some point, and with what better person than the last of the Targaryen maids? 

It was one way to put Starfall on the political map, at least that’s what he would tell his advisors and councilmen. 

“You’ve been suspiciously quiet.” He muttered to Beric, who had snagged an apple from one of the serving girls on the way up to the guest quarters and was taking a large bite, for a moments time the chewing of an apple was his only response. 

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” He said, a little too joyful in tone. 

“Sure, old man.” He joked back. Beric scowled at him, apple punching out his cheek. 

“Old man.” He scoffed, “I’ll have you know I’m still quite strapping for a man of a certain age.” Beric told him, bringing a surprise burst of laughter from his chest.   
It felt good to laugh, he had felt wound so tight for days, since that first day in the library he felt like a snake had coiled in his chest, tight with nerves and agitation. He felt those nerves now, his hands which were strong with sword and steel were clammy around the stems of the flowers. 

“I sent a letter to the council last night about your decision, we should be hearing back from them soon.” Beric said, though his tone was conversational, jovial even, there was something there in the back of his words, a warning that trouble was on the tides. The councilmen could prove to be a bit difficult, they were wary about opening borders, trade, and foreigners, even those closer to them like the Dornish. They had been burned too many times in the past. 

“I’m sure it’ll be a riveting read.” He couldn’t help the dry sarcasm in his voice, Beric shot him a disapproving look out of the corner of his eye. He didn’t always appreciate his charges young wit. 

“Do you think she’ll like them?” He asked, holding the flowers aloft in his hand showing them. Beric looked them over. 

“All little ladies like flowers.” But the thing was, remembering the callouses on her fingers, the fierce fire in her eyes he wasn’t sure she could be described as a ‘little lady.’ 

“Looks like she’ll be having a lot of flowers.” Beric said after a moment of silence. Edric looked up from where he was inspecting his handful of flowers to find himself looking Jaime Lanniser in the eyes. 

The taller man looked a tad too regal in a dark crimson cloak with a long sword hanging at his hips. He too was holding a bouquet of flowers. Next to him walked the imp, in full Lannister wardrobe as well, a scroll tucked under his arm a slight smile on his face. He was short, sure, but that wasn’t the most striking thing about him. He had eyes like Beric’s, like Ned Stark’s, but he must have been half the age. Old and wise, his face was hardly creased his little hands were loose at his sides. They were no threat to him. Behind both of them trailed six Lannister guards in golden armor and red cloaks, a contrast to their own guards who stood still and stiff in their silver armor and violet cloaks. 

“Ser Lannister.” He called. 

“Ser Dayne.” He called back, his smile was brittle, blonde hair brushed off his forehead. 

“I see we have the same mind this morning.” He called, keeping the smile on his face. They came to a stop in front of the proper door. It was a standard double door and the guard in front was in northern grey’s. Edric had picked a specific time to come, he knew that Jory Cassel was down in the training yard with Eddard Stark and the King, and he left his daughters under the watch of the squire, who seemed to not know what to do with himself. He stood straight, hand on his sword hilt as if he could get away with using it.   
“It would seem. How do you fare this morning Lord Dayne?” It was a jab, Edric couldn’t quite see how yet but it was, the mocking tone in his voice. 

“I am well, and yourself, Ser Jaime?” The blonde man clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth and gave a small mocking smile. 

“The same.” 

“Have you heard about Lady Jona’s health, is she doing well?” This was small talk of course. Edric had gotten a word on how she was just hours after she had been taken to be seen. 

“I have. I heard she’s doing much better. My brother and I have come to see if she wanted to join us for lunch in the gardens.” Jaime said. The Imp stepped up, he had a large smile on his face, Edric would dare to call in genuine. 

“Yes I hear that she and I have some things in common, I’d love to speak with the Lady of Winterfell.” 

“Well,” Beric stepped up, hands on his belt, the left hand close to his sword hilt. “we’ve come to ask her much the same. We have a lovely midday meal set up on the balcony, it overlooks the cliffs, her being from the north we figured she must not get to see the water so much.” 

“I’m sure she’ll appreciate it on the morrow.” Tyrion said, his smile not wavering in its delight. Beric’s didn’t either. 

“Morrow? Why not today, it’s beautiful outside.” 

“You see, The Lannister family has already gone out of its way to ensure that her favorite dishes were served, due to her being injured under our watch. We would hate to waste them.” Jaime said. 

“Out of its way..” Edric mused. “well I’m sure she would hate to have made you go out of your way.” He said, the smile on his face loosening a bit. 

“I’m sure that she would enjoy some sun after being locked in this room.” Ser Jaime said. They were practically nose to nose, the squire from the north had long since pressed himself up against the door. Which was why he about fell through it when it swung open. 

In the doorway stood a small girl, her dark brown hair dusted down her shoulders. She was in boys trousers and a tunic, a small skinny sword attached to her hip. She looked like she had just come up from a nap, she couldn’t have been more than just nine years old. Behind her stood the more regal sister, flaming hair and her mouth turned a skew. 

“You know it echo’s in there, everything you’re saying.” The smaller one said. Edric knew her to be Arya Stark, of Winterfell. He had seen her dirty and scavenging, running about the castle. 

“She’s not here.” Sansa Stark said, looking equally tired and a bit baffled. “My lords.” She tacked on the end, as if she forgot that it belonged there. 

“Not here?” Jaime questioned, looking about. 

“Then where is she?” Tyrion asked.

“She went down to the markets earlier this morning.” Arya said, leaning in the doorway. Her eyes flitted from sword to sword. 

“With a guard?” Edric asked, a slight sinking feeling in his stomach. 

“No, My Lords, she wanted some time to herself.” Sansa answered, fiddling with loose threads on her sleeves. 

“She’s in flea bottom by herself!?” The smile was gone from the Lannister’s face, mocking or otherwise. 

“Yes.” Arya asked. 

“How long has she been gone?” Edric asked, he wondered how something like this happened. No lady from his house would be able to slip down to the markets on her lonesome at any time, let alone during a tourney, when men were known to let the urges rule their blood, with so many houses in the capitol. But part of him knew, it was because she was a bastard. 

“Hours.” Arya said. 

 

“Hours!?” 

Edric spun on his guards, they were all tanned and still, waiting for orders. 

“Gather more of you, head to flea bottom.” He could hear Jaime Lannister behind him, issuing orders to the red cloaks,   
“alert the gate guards and all guards in the castle to be on the lookout. Get me my squire.” 

The other two Stark girls stood in the doorway, one looking at them bored and the other, the tall redhead had a squint in her eyes as if she was figuring out an equation or looking at a map. Pieces connecting in her head. 

She said nothing, only closing the door in her wake. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Dear Robb, 

 

King’s Landing is nothing like I thought it would be. Remember when we were children and we would dream of going there one day, to see the knights and the lords and ladies, we would play games in the yards, sword fights and dragons. It’s nothing like that here. Every man, woman and child has been knighted, their all fat drunks, leaches too. There are whorehouses on every corner and there is more wine than water, Theon would love it. You might love it, but you hate politics just as much as I do. If this is what you must look forward to during your days as warden of Winterfell, I wish you well.   
Sansa loves it. She fits right in just like we knew she would. She looks beautiful every day, she is the star of everyone’s eyes. Mother would be proud. Arya has taken to the Captiol like a cat to the bath, she yearns for home, but has found some friends here. No young lords though, you can report to mother. She remains her wild self, I won't let them take that from her.   
Oh Robb, don’t tell mother but I long for home too. I wish I hadn’t come here, I feel like I am being watched, exposed. I wish I could go down in the training yard with you and Theon and wear trousers, but the dresses every day and the hot weather, I feel like a fish washed upon the shore. I have secured in the letter some journals I’d like you to add to our research. I would love to hear if you’ve found anything more. 

 

Lovingly,   
Your Sister  
Jona Snow

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoa! Long time no see! Sorry I had to finish finals and then I needed a mental break because college is hard. This chapter takes place obviously the morning of the last chapter, the next chapter will take off when Jona reaches Kings Landing, we'll also be getting some Oberyn next chapter because I miss him! 
> 
> 1\. I'm trying to keep Edric young, but it's hard because we have to think about the responsibilities on his shoulders, and the fact that his youth contributes to some teenage angst and feelings that he has. 
> 
> 2\. Jaime is going to seem slimy. He's the type of character who doesn't really blossom in the presence of other characters and he will have to spend some time alone with Jona for his character development to come out. 
> 
> 3\. I added that letter at the bottom because it's time to get into the meat of the story, and the true conflict which is of course going to be Jona's Targaryen Heritage. The letter below is from Jona to Robb, who has been doing her research in her absence. 
> 
> 4\. Sansa and Arya are my joy to write. 
> 
> 5\. I hope you enjoy, and questions and comments can be dropped in the comment box. Boy, have I missed you guys.


	8. Found in the Study

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jona returns to the castle with an entourage waiting for her.

Eight 

 

Found in the Study 

 

 

“Do you want me to carry that?” Jona asked for the third time to the squire, who seemed to be bobbing under the weight he was carrying. He looked to be having quite the struggle. Podrick, he said his name was, was red in the face, sweating around the collar and quivering in the knees. 

He had insisted on carrying her satchel of things along with his own things. He had seemed hot enough when he had found her in the low depths of The Red Keep, now he seemed positively on fire, his olive toned face a bizarre shade of cranberry. 

The walk back to the Castle had been a mostly quiet one, filled with the quaint little huffs coming from Podrick, struggling under the weight. She took some last glimpses around. There was a cluster of small, barefooted children throwing pebbles at a chicken, there were some women sitting on the ledge of a dry fountain, there lips moving in sync, smiles on the edge of their lips. An old fabric saleswoman was beating a rug with a wooden stick, as her husband stood behind and watched with clenched eyebrows. It was every day life, stacked on top of each other, the little homes built so far up in a hill that they seemed to lean forward a tilt. The ground beneath them was a mix of rock and dirt and sand, there were horses stumbling around everywhere. There was life down here, something the castle almost seemed to be missing. The gold statues had no expression, the paintings on the wall – no scent. 

She knew she would have to find a way to come back. 

“I-I-I’ve got it M-m-mm’lady.” He said, stumbling over his words. 

She crossed her arms uncomfortably under her bust and followed along with him. A few white cloaked men had come up the rear to follow them home, they were also huffing under their armor. The castle doors were in sight now, the two men behind them ran forward to alert the guard to open the gate, and she was ushered inside. 

The castle walls prevented the hot sun from beating hard on her shoulders, which were starting to burn from the heat. Podrick seemed to be turning a normal shade again under the stone walls. 

“Thank you for escorting me.” She said awkwardly, she held her hands out for her satchel. He, again, held it from her. 

“I-M’lady – I’m to escort you to Sir Jaime Lannister, he has been ever so worried about you My Lady.” Jona thought of how she must look, the back of her hair was sticking to her neck, it felt heavy around her shoulders and arms. Her dress was uncomfortable in some places as well, clustered under her breasts from sweat, legs chafing at the thighs from the heat. She didn’t feel much ready to meet The Heir to Casterly Rock. 

She looked down at herself, droopy and sun tinged, and then she looked up at Podrick, whose large eyes were beaming with worry and red face was sweaty and he looked so hopeful. And who was she to say ‘no’ – to say no to a great Heir. She was the Bastard of the north, and it would do her well to remind herself of her place. When someone told her to go, she went. 

So she wiped her hands on her dressed, and waved at Podrick to show her the way. He ambled in front of her. They were headed through a side of the castle that she did not know, she didn’t know much of this castle and that had unsettled her. For all she knew this strange Squire boy was leading her to some sad and indecent area. She listened to the boy babble aloud about where they were, about the painting on the wall and knew that this wasn’t true. 

She reminded herself of what her father had told her as they had traveled her, when she had ambled up to her father on her borrowed horse, he had told them to be smart and safe, the beast of the royal family may be a stag or a lion, but they existed in a din of snakes. 

She reminded herself of this as they rounded a third corner, passing a group of servants carrying a vat of wheat. 

There was a large set of oak doors at the end of the hall, and from its cracked entrance there was the sound of squabbling. Nothing too loud, nothing that was causing the stop of the daily life outside of the doors.

They drew closer. 

 

“ – Yes Lannister, frightening her is exactly the way to get her to come back, I would assume your brutish men have her running for the hills by now.” The accented voice of Edric Dayne came from between the crack in the door. 

“If it were up to you I’m afraid we would never see her again.” Came the leisurely draw of Sir Jaime Lannister himself. Podrick, with the kind of tact that Arya possesses pushed the door open with no invitation and bent himself in a strict “L” of a bend – pressing her satchel up against his armored chest, sword tip clanking on the stone floor. 

“My Lords, Lady Jona Snow, of Winterfell.” With this rather dramatic introduction he stepped over to the right to allow them full view of her. She felt even more mangy than before taking in the sight of polished armor, clean silks and dirt free palms that belong to the lords that were sitting the study. 

Jaime Lannister was lounged on a large oaken desk, his legs dangling, silk shirt and sturdy trousers, a white cloak draped behind him. Beside him, the Imp. Who was similarly dressed, with a flask of wine in his hand. Beside him, similarly grasping a flask of wine was a man she did not know, though he looked a bit aged, he had lines around his eyes and mouth that seemed to indicate that he might have been a more jovial man under different circumstances. 

Standing in the center of the room, with hands on his hips, was a much younger Edric Dayne. In an impressive set of robes, that included a golden coloured tunic, black trousers and a dark violet cloak. 

 

They gaped at her, as she gaped at them. 

 

“Gods. My lady, where have you been?” The imp said, his mouth agape at her. She realized that she must look like some kind of moist mess. Cheeks and shoulders flushed from the heat, hair curling massively around her shoulders from the humidity. She remembered that her face must be a mess, the purpling around her eye stood out vividly, reminding herself of the injury, it began to hurt again. Throbbing a bit around the edges. 

“I-I took a walk, I decided to get some things..” She trailed off. “I’m sorry to have caused any problems, My Lords.” She bowed her head, eyes locked on floor. 

“It’s alright, I was merely worried about you, you see.” Sir Jaime said, from the tops of her lashes she peaked up at him, and like his namesake, in the most elegant way he leapt from the desk. One hand outstretched. 

Before he could reach her, he was cut off by a swirl of violet and chrome, young Edric Dayne has stepped in front of her. His own hand grasping at her upper arm, her eyes darted up to meet his own lilac colored orbs. 

“Gods, my lady we were so worried about you. Wandering about with an injury, I prayed that you were found safe.” 

“Good lot your prayers did.” Sir Lannister said, his voice at a low taunting drawl. “It was my own dedicated squire that had found her.” She could feel a tenseness in the room, there was a thick atmosphere that belied the fresh sea air that billowed in from around the curtains, permeated the lighthearted atmosphere that the sheer curtains created. 

“My Lady, please believe that we had sent men out to find you as soon as we were alerted that you were missing.” 

A strange form of alarm had started to swell in her belly, she didn’t think that she was missing. Missing was for girls who disappeared from their fathers homes, missing was for girls who vanished in the nights with a strange young suitor, she was no missing girl. She had told her sisters where she would be, sure she had slipped past Jory, but she had been safe the whole time. 

“I-sire-I-“ 

“Please, my Lady, Edric.” He instructed. She went to explain, to use his name, but it got stuck on her tongue. It felt inappropriate rolling from her mouth freely. She felt oddly afloat, all of these people staring at her in the midday sun, the crust of sweat around her bust, sun shining more bright than it ever did in Winterfell, all of these people, these men staring at her as if she was something other than a Bastard, something other than a cheapened commodity from the North. 

“Uh, My Lord, I apologize greatly for any inconvenience, I told my sisters where I would be, I did not think that anyone would be… searching for me.” 

“Yes, My Lady, I had come to see how you were faring after your grievous injury, and to invite you, and a chaperone of course, to come and dine with us. Of course, it be in good for you, we could always dine on the morrow.” He said, there was a smile curving his lips that she was oddly noticing were pink and plump against his deeply tanned skin. 

“I’m sure she would be happy to join you.” Sir Lannister drew again from behind him. “After she has joined me on a walk of the cliffs, the most beautiful, besides – of course – the ones in Casterly Rock.” 

There was a blurring of worlds happening here. She wondered, if Sansa were asked these questions, would she stand there agape as Jona had? Would she be uncomfortable here, would she even find herself in this situation? Proper lady that she was sweat incrusted in the presence of two lords? 

Probably not. 

 

Her mind flailed for a bit. 

 

She didn’t know if any of these things were even proper, she didn’t know if a Lady of her position (that of a Bastard) should be alone with any man, for her reputation would be tattered enough because of that of her birth status. 

How would she explain to her father? Who had painstakingly explained to them about the nature of man and the nature of a mans desire. What would she tell Mother Catelyn in her next letter? 

“I-“ She faltered, flailed, stuttered. 

“My lady you must be exhausted.” The Imp said suddenly, she felt bad then, he should be called by his name. 

Tyrion Lannister was standing upright from his position looking at her with an odd sense in his eyes, there was something there in the mismatched orbs that told her to just follow along. He blinked slowly at her, his eyes drifting to his knightly brother and back to her, they stranded for a bit on Beric Dondarrion, who was slowly nodding at her behind his Lords back, his own goblet of wine forgotten. 

“I-I- am quite fatigued.” She admitted, and it wasn’t a lie. Waves of drowsiness were crashing over her. She felt as if she had spent the day in the training yard with Robb, or running about with Rickon. Her legs felt fatigued at the thigs and the soles of her feet were aching. 

“We should get you to a Maester.” Sir Dondarrion had said, standing straighter from her post. 

She was bustled from the light and airy room with Podrick the Squire again. Feeling quite like someone’s dog or pack mule being told were to go, along with the exhaustion the feeling of frustrated anger had overtaken her. Her freedoms were so valued in the North, she went where she pleased, trained with a sword and wrestled with her brothers. She had spent many a day with just Rickon in the deep woods, there was no need for this boy to escort her anywhere. 

“I’m going to escort you to the Maester, My Lady, and then-“ She whirled on him. 

“Listen… Podrick.. I’m going to tell you what I plan to do. I’m going to go to my rooms, change out of this filthy gown, bathe, eat and proceed with my night as normal.” 

His face went from determined, to confused, to alarmed in the span of a few seconds. His cheeks flushed with rosy glow. She felt something growing within her, taking the form of her red-headed sister she drew herself up to her full height, squared her shoulders, and in a tone so reminiscent of Sansa she scared herself she continued: 

“And if you’re …. Mentor’s … have a problem with that, well, tell them to write me. I would also appreciate if you passed on the message that the next time someone would like to request my presence they can do it in the proper way of sending me a letter or asking my Father.” With those words she went to spin away, plucking her satchel from Podrick hair flinging dramatically, dress swirling around her ankles. She was, for a moment , free of conflict. Sure of her place in the world. 

 

 

And she might have remained that way of course, if she hadn’t spun right into Oberyn Martell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WOW 
> 
> Long time, no see. I'm super excited to be back in the game! 
> 
> All errors are mine, I do not have a beta - but am looking for one! 
> 
> Let me know your thoughts, I wanted to make sure that we started to develop a backbone for Jona.


	9. Smitten

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Smitten. A new word.

Smitten 

 

 

 

The sun was setting behind the castle gates, the sky has turned a burnt orange. In the north, when the sun set it wasn’t like in the South. The sky was less orange and more pink, perhaps it had to do with the fact that it was just more gray in the North, more trees too. It was harder to see the drifting of the sun going down beneath the castle. 

In the north during this time of day typically Jona was rounding her siblings up for last meal. Rickon always had dirt in every crevice, his ears and up his little narrow nostrils. They would settle into the castle, because the moment the sun went down what little heat might have been generated during the day disappeared with it. Leaving outside, despite the season, uncomfortably cool. The inside of Winterfell was always warm, the stone walls helped insulate and the fires kept toes toasty. They would have a good roast and hardy vegetables, some beans and brown bread. And then she would settle into bed. Maybe she would read first, maybe she would go and visit Robb and Theon and interrupt their reading, maybe she would make little castles from wooden blocks with Bran and Rickon, and then – like night called to her she would go into her room. Sansa’s maid would come and close her curtains tight, she would tuck herself into bed, covers warm and comfortable and drift to sleep. 

 

There wasn’t much like that now, not in the South. In the south as the sun peaked behind the castle walls of the red keep the wind that blew off the sea was cool, but it did little about the stifling heat. The town didn’t go quiet, fires lit up and the activity seemed to magnify. She couldn’t imagine mothers tucking their children into bed with the amount of noise that seemed to plume from Flea Bottom. She thought about all of the children she saw today, some rosey cheeked and clearly well fed, some scrawny and knobby kneed. They wouldn’t be as well fed as she was tonight. 

Her eyes nearly glazed over as she glanced at the magnitude of food that as been placed in front of her, her nostrils burned from the spices, her mouth water a bit. Heat billowed off a tin of thin, herbal bread in the center of the table. Across from her, sipping from a goblet a stroking his chin was Prince Oberyn Martell. 

Compared to him, in fine golden robes with crimson red threading, his hair was sleek and black, his eyes were sharp on her, so sharp that she shifted a bit in her seat. She, herself, felt like some kind of street urchin. She had had no time to change after her impromptu meeting with Prince Oberyn in the halls, he had led her, by the elbow to where they were dinning, she hadn’t had much say. 

“Are you comfortable?” He asked, in his thicker accent when she shifted in her seat again. Feeling again like she needed a good scrub and some elbow grease from Sansa on her hair, she gave the Prince a weak smile. 

“I’m quite alright my Lord. I thank you for asking.” She said, and glanced down again as yet another dish was added to the table. After setting this down, the Dornish man in white robes gave them a tight low bow and all but dashed from the room, the door was shut behind him with the help of the spear wielding guards by the door.   
“My lady, I thank you in joining me for dinner.” He said, gesturing toward the table. Without Sansa to tell her what to lean toward she stretched a pale hand forward and snagged some of the warm bread off the tray, some rice and a meat that looked like chicken. Oberyn had helped himself as well. She tore into some of the rice, and was glad that her dress muted the sound of her stomach growling. It was really quite good. 

They ate in silence for a bit, Jona who had been feeling a bit awkward soon with the sound of crashing waves, the city and the soft scrape of utensils on plate she began to feel a bit loosened, todays long walk had made her muscles feel a bit tense, but sitting in the warmth with the warm food made her feel much better. She even began to forget about the nest that must be her hair. 

“Do you know about the founding of Dorne?” He spoke suddenly. She had almost done a good job of forgetting that hew as even there, of course in the present of a Prince that was unacceptable. 

“I do not my Prince, I apologize.” She bowed her head. 

“Do not apologize, not many know these days – but those who live across the stretch of the sea.” He said, taking another deep sip of his spiced wine. “Dorne was built on the backs of women, before these seven kingdoms, or the throne in which the king sits on now, there were the Dornish. The first men crossed into Dorne twelve thousand years ago, and before Nymeria – there was just blood and chaos, fighting over land, soil and food – little things that prevented us from being peaceful. Dorne needed a woman’s touch, Nymeria came with her thousands of ships across the sea. Mors of my house saw in her what others didn’t, the protentional, the strength. That’s what Dorne is about today. It matters not what you are born as, poor man, rich man, woman or man – you are born an equal in Dorne.” He said, his voice – beautiful in its accent spun the tale like chocolate over pastry, like spun sugar. 

“That is a beautiful story.” She admitted, tucking an errant strand of hair behind her ear for safe keeping. “Would you tell me what Dorne looks like?” She had been trying to picture it in her head, but so far the only waters she had seen were those by the pier, and they were mostly green in colour, and there wasn’t really sand as much as there was rocks – as much as she had seen anyway. Prince Jaime claims there is a spot where the water is crystal and blue. 

“My home is beautiful. The sands are white, the water laps at the shore. The homes are not as tight as they are here, the people have space to breath. The markets in Dorne are legendary, the artists take their crafts very seriously, art is very important to the culture in Dorne. Many of the architecture was forged by dragon fire. Tell me, Lady Jona of Winterfell.” 

She thinks of her home, and how less exciting it must sound in comparison to dragon fire and white sand. She tucks that errant strand of hair again. 

“It is cold there, as you know. The hills are always dusted in frost and the forests are dense. There is so much wildlife, every year I think I see a little animal I’ve never seen before. Winterfell is old, but beautiful. It’s tall and stone and always warm.” Her voice trailed off, that dreadful home sickness settling in her stomach once more. 

“I visited Winterfell once.” He said. “You are quite right, old but beautiful. You are lucky to have grown up among such honor and history.” 

“You visited Winterfell?” She asked, this was a story she had never heard, she could not picture this prince, so clearly a child of sun, under the cold skies of Winterfell. 

“During war, we came to talk peace.” His voice trailed off to, something far away bloomed in his eyes. “I had wondered, lovely girl, how are bastards treating in the North?” 

 

She flushed, she felt her mouth moving like that of a landed fish, she didn’t know how to answer. Mostly, because she didn’t know the intention of his question and she didn’t want to bring shame on her house or on the North. She had been taught, of course, that she should be slightly ashamed of her heritage. Daughter to Ned Stark or not, she was still a motherless child, and motherless children have to be treated some kind of way. Though she had always been loved in her home, even by the tight backed Lady Stark, and her siblings, there was a certain way she was meant to be treated outside the house. She was to walk behind Sansa, she didn’t get to sit at the Lords table but maybe at the end of Holiday’s. Most people, kind like northerners didn’t care that she was a bastard, as long as she was good to them, they were good to her. She knew in the South this was not the case, Bastards were street folk, ashamed and disavowed. 

 

“I am treated well.” She finally said, her tone careful and balanced. She looked down at the yellow pudding on her plate, some kind of Dornish dessert. 

 

“I have no doubt that Ned Stark treats his daughter well, no doubt in my mind, I am asking my Lady about heritage, can you inhereit, can you keep your gold or carry your throne?”   
He must have known that the answer was no, that unless every single member of her family died in some kind of mass slaughter, she would have no way of reaching the ‘throne’ that her Lordly father sat on. She was expected, like her sisters, to form allies by marriage and continue on the family line. 

 

“I know things are different here, I wonder if that is why the growth of the seven kingdoms has been so stunted.” At the words she felt caution, as a bastard girl of the north she had no business talking about stunted growth or politics. “Women here are still treated as they always have been, like pigs to slaughter or cattle to be bought and sold, that is something my sister would always tell me before she was sent here. We would sit upon the beaches her and I, we would stare out at the water and she would tell me how she didn’t want to lose her freedom to throne.” 

 

Jona didn’t know much about Queen Elia, only that she had been brutally slaughtered, she had been very beautiful and an unfortunate causality of war. 

 

“She sounds like a wonderful woman.” Jona said, after moments of silence. Prince Oberyn nodded her way, “She was.” 

 

“I don’t mean to be imprudent my Prince, but may I ask why you have invited me for this meal?” She backtracked for a bit, mind scuttling backwards to clean herself up. “Not that I mind, even one bit my lord – I mean – my Prince, I just mean, well this is lovely, so very lovely and so wonderful and delicious I just wondered … why..” She trailed off, when she noticed an light shaking of his shoulders, a large hand was covering his mouth but his eyes were crinkled and twinkling with merth. 

 

“Please, my lady calm yourself. I was merely curious, and I am always willing to share my culture with people who deserve it.” 

“Curious, my Prince?” 

He stood from the table, his goblet of wine forgotten by his plate of pudding next to it, growing cold. He leaned against the stone of the wall, gazing out of the window with a focused eye. Without him looking at her she was able to get a good look at him, take in the tight ridge of shoulders, the spike of hair and tenseness around the jaw. He was The Red Viper – even without his spear he was formidable. He looked relaxed now, but she could imagine how in a moment that could change. 

“When we met in the garden, and I learned that you were the motherless girl of Eddard Stark I was curious, I inquired about you, out of the mouths of no one has one bad word been spoken about you, and it’s all very curious isn’t it – when you were born the gossips of every city wondered who your mother could be, and soon the gossip died away, and now you are here – a lovely winter flower from the North, I must admit that I find myself a bit smitten.” 

 

 

Smitten. 

 

Smitten. 

 

She flushed. 

“My Prince I’m flattered.” Flatter and flabbergasted. 

“Don’t look so surprised, you have caused quite a stir here, have you noticed?” 

Her mind seemed to produce the flashbacks in rapid progression in her mind, the flower crown, the dance, the arguing – it all seemed to come together like puzzle pieces in her mind. She had boiled it all down to curiosity about the North’s bastard, or even pity in the light that though she was older, her suitability was much less than Sansa’s but now, like silk going over her eyes, it wasn’t pity at all, it might have been … 

 

“Smitten” She whispered out loud.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoa! it's been a while, this chapter is short because I wanted to get something out to you guys. This is our first in depth look at Oberyn, I think it's important that we start getting one on one interactions. 
> 
> Let me know what you think! 
> 
> Next chapter coming to a screen near you sometime next week.

**Author's Note:**

> I do not own these characters. Any questions, comments or inconsistencies - let me know!


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